


Non-Traditional Rewards

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Cock & Ball Torture, Human Furniture, M/M, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Negotiated Kink, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: Thomas didn't deserve anything unless he worked for it, and oh, Thomas loved working for it. Whether that meant playing human footrest, or cleaning in his boxers, or making dinner - every moment of it was wonderful.





	Non-Traditional Rewards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawittiest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawittiest/gifts).



> MadiJeffs PWP. Woot! Mind the tags, if you please. :)
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at [iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com), or on twitter at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake).

James had told him to stay late, so he did. He had plenty of work to do, honestly - always did. That was the thing about the law, that it never rested. There were always new arguments and discussions to be made, and people to talk to, and references to make, and some previous case to consider as precedent. 

James hadn't said when to come home, but it was mid-sunset when he decided to leave. It was August, and fairly late - whatever James was preparing for him couldn't take that long. He was sure that he'd love it, of course. There hadn't been a damn thing James had done in the past two years that Thomas hadn't liked. 

He texted James to say he was coming home, but James didn't respond. He didn't usually; it was a little test of loyalty, in their way. He would have, if Thomas got nervous, but James liked to say Thomas didn't deserve it. Thomas didn't deserve anything unless he worked for it, and oh, Thomas loved working for it. Whether that meant playing human footrest, or cleaning in his boxers, or making dinner - every moment of it was wonderful. 

They'd lumped their impressive funds to buy the brownstone. It was beautiful from the outside, all three floors theirs. All the floors had all their purposes. Their beautiful steel kitchen with new appliances, his induction cooktop that he loved. He knocked, even though he lived there. James liked that he knocked, so he did it. 

"Come in," James said, from the foyer. James must have tracked him from his phone; they had an app on there, that let James know where he was. It was a strange comfort, to think James always knew. He rarely wiggled into bad situations, but sometimes Thomas would look up into the sky and be happy that James knew he was in the supermarket or the liquor store or library. 

"Hi," Thomas said, when he closed the door behind him. He put down his briefcase and hung his blazer on the wall, than loosened his tie. James was sitting in his chair in the foyer, dark and broad and calm. Everything in Thomas hummed with a little joy when he took James in. He was wearing a blue button-up and black slacks. His shoes were on, which seemed like some kind of sign. James would've been home for a while - he preferred to go to work early and come home early. 

"Excuse me?" James said, in his soft, commanding voice. 

"Hello, sir," Thomas said, and he took his tie off all the way, and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. That was the best place for it right how. He couldn't have given a damn where the tie went. 

"Better," James said. 

Thomas stood next to the coat rack and waited. 

"My shoes are smudged," James said, and let his eyes trail down to his dress shoes. Thomas knew that they were not smudged, because he had just cleaned them yesterday. And even so he nodded, reaching over for a pillow on another foyer chair, and coming over. 

"Would you like me to clean them, sir?" he asked. He stood up straight, so James could look at him in that intense way that he did; he knew what he looked like and he knew what James liked about him. 

"Of course," James said, in a low voice, and Thomas repressed a shiver. James reached over next to him, to where there was a jar of shoe polish and a rag, and he knocked them both onto the floor with carefully curated distaste. "Get these." 

Thomas closed his eyes and took a breath to restrain all the energy that he felt under his skin. He took off his shoes and and let his hands drift to the buttons of his shirt. James didn't say anything, so he took off the shirt, just leaving him in his undershirt and his slacks. Then he sunk to his hands and knees and crawled across the foyer. He knew James liked it, when he crawled. James liked looking down on him and Thomas liked how it felt, that gaze on his shoulders. 

"I didn't think you'd learn where you belonged," James says, so calm. He puts his feet on Thomas' back, "Why don't you just stay there. The shoes can be cleaned in a little while." 

"Yes, sir," Thomas said, very softly, and bowed his head. He let his mind drift. What did a footstool need, with thoughts? What was important was the weight and the sense of James' feet in his back, and him staying still. There was nothing else, not the tick of the clock, of the foyer, or work. Footstools did not have work. 

"All right," James said, after a while, and then took his feet off Thomas' back, standing. He took Thomas and nodded, perhaps to himself. "Come on, let's have you ruin the couch." 

All he could hear was James. There might've been another world out there, but once a man rested his loafers in your back, he forgot about other things. You only cared about those shoes, and that man, and what he wanted, and how best to do exactly whatever he wanted you to do. He followed on his hands and knees through the lowest floor. They had a little living room here, though the bigger living room was upstairs. James sat, and he gestured onto the couch next to him. Thomas crawled on, and put his head in James' lap, like he knew James liked it. James ran his fingers through his hair just the way he liked it. No one in the whole universe could touch his hair like James did. 

"Put your hips in my lap," James said, after he had turned Thomas' brain to mush. 

Thomas agreed without thinking, wiggling around on the couch. It might've been uncomfortable, if Thomas wasn't so distant. James was powerfully built, and his back arched towards the couch, his legs hanging off the other end. If James cared, he didn't notice. James unbuttoned his belt and then his slacks and pulled his pants down, and took his cock out of pants and stroked him with all the restrained tenderness Thomas knew that he had. 

"Do you like this?" James asked. 

"Yes, sir," Thomas said, half-dazed, and unable to look away from the ceiling. It felt like warm lava being infused through his bones. The heat and the calm and the confidence - this safety and vulnerability he felt with James - it wasn't like anything else. He could have flexed himself in any way and it would still feel good, if James stroked him like that, and took his balls in his hand and squeezed them just hard enough that it felt good. He knew that he was not supposed to push up or beg, so he didn't. He would've, though. One word from James and he would've done anything. 

"You're being very good," James said, and Thomas groaned. Of course he was being good. It was easy to be good for James. “You’re always being very good for me.” Listening to that voice, and that touch, and the way James pushed up his shirt and stroked his stomach. Teasing fingers, and Thomas swears he’d do anything for this man. He’d take any damn bullet that could be shot. He’d stand in a firing squad. James brought the palm of his hand across Thomas’ cock and it made him feel like liquid. James’ voice washed over him like a breeze. “So calm and relaxed.” 

The ache in his lower back faded away. He could feel nothing but the touch, as hypnotic as it was. 

“You’re going to be very quiet for me, aren’t you?” James asked. He gave Thomas a squeeze, just hard enough to get his attention. Thomas’ brain went slow, but he was good, and he responded when a response was required. 

“Of course, sir,” he said. It had been hard. He had forgotten he had a mouth, or could say words. But he’d managed. He would invent his own mouth before would disobey. 

“You promise?” James asked. 

“Yes, sir,” he said. 

“Good,” James said, and he closed his fist around Thomas’ balls. 

There was no word to describe how it felt. _Pain_ seem so hopelessly limited, so useless and incomplete, so narrow, so _known_ , that it could not only be this. This was more like reaching into his brain and pulsing it with electricity. This was as if he needed to see an angel, and you couldn’t just look upon an angel without it hurting, it being impossible for a mere human to look upon or consider. This was like recoiling against touching some fabric of reality and it understood exactly how you were constructed and where to let you know you were not built or designed to comprehend it. 

It was overwhelming and unbearable and yet he felt the brick of the wail in his throat, and some part of him said _you said you would be quiet_ and pulled it back. He didn’t know what he looked like right then - he could barely acknowledge there was such a thing to be looked like, to be seen (and, oh, if he saw he would adore it, neck stretched and stomach long and mouth hanging open and eyes clenched shut and fingers twitching) -- but he had promised, and one did not break such promises, and one did not break such promises to James. 

James was there. He knew James was there, in the heaven-hell sensation. The part of him that said _you will be quiet_ also said _James is there_ , and the discordant, insensible parts of his brain worked in harmony, and for a while they fed him nothing but the impossible fire in his nerves, and the tender but intense requirement for him to be quiet, and the impossibly magnificent surety that James was there. 

Eventually he became aware that there were other things. It was a slow process. He became aware of the powerful thigh on which his head was rested. He was wearing a shirt, and there was a broad hand up the sleeve of his shirt and stroking his forearm. There was a hand touching his hair, in the only way that he liked. There was the couch, and the tick of the clock. He had breath, and it slid in and out of his lungs. He had lungs. 

“Thomas,” James said. James was there, touching him, talking to him, “Beautiful. How are you feeling?” 

His throat felt parched, and his lips were cracked and dry when he licked them. “Liquid,” he answered. With an impossible effort, he slid his eyes open. James was looking at him. James had taken off his shirt, and he was impossibly gorgeous. He lifted a trembling hand, and James took it, and put it on his chest. The man was warm and broad, smooth aside from hair. 

“Good liquid?” James asked, and wiggled around him, so he was laying on the couch and Thomas was now pressed into his chest. He smelled cologne and sweat and skin. James was here, with him, for him. James was all around him and holding him close and would never let something happen to him. All the things James did, they adored. He adored it, the electricity and the nerves of it. 

“Good liquid,” Thomas agreed. He was feeling stronger now, could reach around and hold James close. He could kiss James’ chest, and when he lifted his chin James kissed him, warm and soft. “Thank you, sir. I’m so grateful, sir. Tell me how I can pleasure you, sir.” 

James looked at him thoughtfully. He rearranged them, with him sitting up and Thomas in his lap. “I think you know how you can please me, Thomas.” 

Thomas knew. 

Thomas slid off the couch. He grabbed the pillow they’d proud over and settled it under his knees. There was nothing like it, being half-drunk on endorphins. The sense that James was more there than anything. The spectacular things James did to his body. 

“May I touch you, sir?” Thomas asked. James looked down his nose at him, in the way that made him shiver. 

“I suppose,” James said. Thomas felt the smooth fabric of James’ slacks, and then he went to the button of his fly. He unzipped it, and drew James, half-hard from his briefs. 

“May I, sir?” 

James’ hands went to his hair. “You will,” he said, “But don’t be slow about it.” 

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said, and took him into his mouth. Thomas was extremely sure that no one had a cock as spectacular as James’. It wasn’t just one thing about it. It was just the right size and just the right length and just the right girth, hot in his mouth, dark and smooth. Thomas though it was likely he could be very satisfied sucking this cock for a long, long time. He worshipped it with his tongue, dragged his lips along the flesh and let it press against his throat. He sighed with pleasure, felt James’ hands on his neck, listened to those soft groans that Thomas had an endless amount of pride he created. 

It was a different kind of space to be in, to just be concentrating on this one thing, to only have it in his mind to just pleasure James as best he could. He didn’t want to tease, though he had before. He just wanted to have James know how much he appreciated what they did, and to know that there was probably nothing in the world Thomas liked doing other than letting himself belong to the other man. 

“Don’t make me come,” James said. 

Thomas grunted an affirmation. He thought he might know what that meant, but of course it was only James who decided what Thomas did or did not get. But he could work as hard as he could to get what he hoped: this persistent, spectacular affection. James was fair, and James loved him, and he was good.


End file.
